I knew exactly what I was getting into when I married Eric.
He was a high-school teacher and coach—young, driven, passionate, and successful in every sense of the word. He loved with his whole heart and lived by a code of integrity. Winning, for him, was never about the scoreboard; it was about shaping young men of character, honor, and resilience. He was thoughtful, caring, and deeply committed to family, and from the moment I met him, I felt that love and devotion.
Marrying Eric meant I would be proud of him every single day, but it also meant he would be gone a lot, and I’d be holding down the fort at home. And that was okay. I was strong, independent, and willing. I believed in him and his vision for life. I wanted to be part of it all.
We were married for almost fifteen years. Almost fifteen. And in that time, we loved hard. We supported and encouraged each other in ways most people could only dream of. Our marriage wasn’t perfect, but it was close enough that I believed in it completely.
They say marriages take work, and ours did—but it was mostly fun and easy. At that moment, though, we were in one of the hardest seasons of our relationship. Life and work had pulled us in different directions, and our priorities had shifted. Our daughters were 11 and 8, and their needs, combined with our busy schedules, often left us feeling stretched thin. Still, I believed we were thriving.
But we weren’t.
I can’t place all the blame on Eric—I blame myself, too. We both allowed our emotional connection to fray, and we weren’t making time for each other as a couple. Yet, I wasn’t worried. I knew we would work it out. Our commitment to one another was strong, and I truly believed that no matter what, we’d figure it out.
Then one random Sunday, I found myself painting a bedroom, irritated at Eric who was quietly in the other room. The kids were calling for me, ignoring that he was right there. Frustration crept in, and a thought crossed my mind that still fills me with shame: “God knows if anything were to happen to Eric, I’d be okay… I do it all now anyway.”
It wasn’t the first time I had that thought. I knew it was wrong, and yet there it was.
Eric peeked into the room and said, “The room looks good!”
I didn’t smile or say thank you. Instead, I muttered, “Well, it’s done.” We paused, and I knew he had a football meeting that evening. Snarkily, I said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about us…”
He half-smiled, calm and steady as always, and said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about us, too.”
I wanted to cry out of frustration and admiration. He was such a good man, and here I was being short with him. Yet, his calmness and love were unwavering.
“Come over here and give me a kiss,” he said, with that charm that could soften any hard moment. I approached, still standoffish.
We kissed. Not the quick, hurried peck of everyday life, but a soft, gentle, lingering kiss. It confirmed what I already felt deep inside: we would be okay.
A few hours later, while snuggled on the couch with our daughters watching a movie, my phone rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize—someone else’s.
“Hello?”
“Kari? Eric’s not breathing, hurry quick!”
Everything changed in that moment.
Losing Eric was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But the hardest part was telling our girls.
Family brought them to the hospital once we had news. I met them near the garage, away from the crowd of coaches, players, friends, and family. I pulled our two little girls, both blonde-headed like their dad, close to me. Speaking the words aloud was agonizing:
“Daddy had a bubble in his brain that nobody knew about… At daddy’s meeting, the bubble popped, and Daddy stopped breathing… Daddy’s not gonna make it.”
I’ll never forget the looks on their little faces—the instant they understood. They buried their faces in me, and I held them tighter than I ever imagined possible, crying until my throat ached and my words failed me.
Eric collapsed and died from a massive ruptured brain aneurysm. He was only 43.
I share our story because our marriage was truly beautiful. We had our rough patches, like any couple, but we loved and lived fully. Even so, I wish I had been more present, more mindful of the moments we shared. I wish I had appreciated him more while he was alive.
Losing him has shaped me in ways I could never have imagined. I’ve learned to slow down, appreciate the quiet, and embrace gratitude. I say no more often without guilt, and I live with a mindfulness I never knew before. My life now is calmer, slower, and more intentional—and I carry Eric in every choice I make, every moment I cherish.
I think of him every day. I miss him every day. And still, we move forward.
